


dreams of fireflies

by Dett



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Runaways (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:57:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dett/pseuds/Dett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clint Barton. This is not the right season to be playing Cupid,” says Kate Bishop, her blue eyes flashing as she finishes scanning her texts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dreams of fireflies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peppernotpotts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppernotpotts/gifts).



> so many thanks to Lexie for being subjectively the best beta ever!  
> (seriously though guys this wouldn't be half as good without her keen reading eye)

“Clint Barton. This is _not_ the right season to be playing Cupid,” says Kate Bishop, her blue eyes flashing as she finishes scanning her texts.

The blond former ninja with whom she shares an alias is (unfortunately) not at all fazed by her cool stare. “Call me Santa, then,” he replies, balancing a trick arrow between his index fingers. “D’you think I should ask Stark to make me more of these? They’re nice, aren’t they?”

“Clint, are you even--” Kate begins, and then cuts off abruptly upon taking a second glance at the arrow. “What on _Earth_ is that monstrosity?”

At that, Clint shoots her a vicious glare. “You’re not a monstrosity, little arrow,” Clint croons to the arrow, stroking it gently. “You’re just... _special,_ and Hawkingbird is too much of a jerk to acknowledge how special and wonderful you are.”

The arrow is indeed very... special, to say the least. The shaft is striped in an obnoxious green and red pattern, the fletching is in a pattern reminiscent of a snowflake, and at the end, where normally there would be been a tip of some kind, is a small Santa figurine, with the tip of its fluff-lined red hat serving as the point of the arrow.

“Oh God,” says Kate, sinking into a nearby armchair and burying her face in her hands. (That’s one of the nice things about Clint’s apartment--it’s actually a pretty comfortable place, especially considering how little time Clint spends in it. Which means that it has a lot of armchairs, and nice, fat ones at that. Not that that particular tidbit is comforting Kate any at this particular moment in time.) “Why.”

“They’re called _Santa’s Little Helpers_ , and I’ve got twelve of them, one for each day of Christmas,” Clint informs her, his blue eyes alight with plans that Kate really doesn’t want to know about (but has a sinking suspicion she’ll soon learn of anyways). “I’m told they sing on contact, but I didn’t want to waste ‘em, so...”

“Oh God,” Kate says, the aggravation in her voice muffled somewhat by her hands, but apparent all the same.

“But enough about me--what brings you to my humble nest?” asks Clint, stowing away the ridiculous arrow--in a box with a gaudy festive bow, which makes Kate sneak in another facepalm before raising her head.

“Molly Hayes. You remember her?” asks Kate. “No, you wouldn’t. You never met her.”

Clint smiles his easy grin and says, “Yeah, but I’ve heard of her. Wolverine was drunk one night, mentioned something about getting beat up by a Princess Powerful.” He taps two fingers to his temple. “I’m a pretty smart boy, Kate.”

Kate rolls her eyes in reply. “So, anyways, the butler calls me downstairs, and...

 *

 _flashback thing_  
“Miss Bishop, I’m afraid I couldn’t restrain--” begins the butler, and is interrupted by a pink-and-denim-swathed bundle of manic young energy.

“‘Course he couldn’t!” says Molly Hayes, the red blanket tied around her neck fluttering as she strikes a heroic pose, hands on her hips and her chin thrust forcefully into the air so that she looks only a foot shorter than Kate (as opposed to a foot and two inches). “Nobody can restrain _Princess Powerful!"_  As she says the last two words, Molly points two thumbs at herself ferociously.

Kate hides a smile behind the palm of one hand (because she knows Molly will think of it as condescending) and gestures towards the parlor with another. “Why don’t you have a seat, Princess?”

As she watches Molly march on over to the Chippendale sofa and plop down on it as if it were something you could buy at Wal-Mart, Kate can’t help but be just a little bit jealous of Molly. After all, Kate has always known-- _always_ \--that one has to Sit Daintily on top of sofas, especially expensive antique sofas, or else it Wouldn’t Be Proper. Kate’s independence and strength of character is fine with her family, of course--in fact, they’re very supportive!--but it’s only fine as long as she remembers that She Is More Than Street Trash And Thus Must Act Like It.

Princess Powerful obviously has had no such experiences in her life, and her posture is rather imperfect as she slouches, cross-legged, and watches Kate situate herself on the chair across from her.

Kate probably can’t tell, not being experienced with reading younger minds (having been the littlest sister herself), but Molly is, quite frankly, somewhat disappointed in her surroundings. The perfectly wallpapered walls, perfectly polished furniture, and perfectly groomed people inside Kate’s (or, more accurately, Kate’s family’s) tasteful New York penthouse can, in Molly’s opinion, be summed up in one word:

 _Boring._ What kind of people bothered to keep stuff so _neat_ and _tidy?_ Didn’t they have better things to do? Like saving the world?

After all, that’s what Chase tells her every time somebody--anybody!--brings up cleaning up Runaways HQ: _Molly, there’s a world that needs saving. We can vacuum the carpet when the world’s perfect._

“So, what brings you here?” asks Kate conversationally.

“I’ve come to _warn you_ ,” replies Molly, her chin tilting up aggressively.

Kate raises an ebony eyebrow in confusion, at which Molly scowls. Grown-ups: they can be so dense, sometimes, even though they are supposed to know everything. “Warn me about _what?”_

“That if you make Tommy cry, I’m gonna _bash your skull in!"_  says Molly, baring her teeth at Kate in an admittedly somewhat intimidating manner.

Kate resists the urge to lean forward across the antique table and ruffle Molly’s hair, and instead asks, “Why would I make Tommy cry?”

The obvious befuddlement in Kate’s voice makes Molly hesitate, just a bit. “Well--not make him _cry,_ but if you make him _want_ to cry! Or _feel_ like crying! Then you gotta deal with _Princess Powerful!"_

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” says Kate, and Molly sighs.

“Okay, sister, I’m going to get all levelled with you,” Molly tells her, untensing her shoulders slightly and leaning forward, her fingers twined together and resting between her knees. “Tommy, he likes you. And he doesn’t like a lot of things.”

“What does that have to do with--” begins Kate.

Molly holds up a hand. “Hang on! Jeez, you’d think old people would be more patient,” she mutters. She glares at Kate, as if daring her to say anything else, from under her dark brown bangs.

Kate stays tastefully silent, and Molly continues, “So, like I said, if you make him sad or anything on Monday, I’m gonna break that pretty face of yours, sister. ‘Cause _Princess Powerful fights injustice!”_

Kate stays silent for another moment, before asking, “Wait--what?”

Molly huffs, rolls her eyes, and throws her hands into the air at the same time. “Jeez!” she exclaims, stalking out of the room. “I give up.”

At the doorway, she pauses, whirls around, and jabs her right index finger at Kate. “But remember, if you’re not nice, _Princess Powerful’s coming for you!”_

Molly slams the door shut behind her as she leaves--and the force of it is so strong that the cuckoo clock on the wall adjacent to the door falls from its peg and lands in one of Kate’s mother’s bonsai trees.

 _“Cheep, cheep, cheep,”_ goes the cuckoo in the clock, its body getting smashed against the miniature Chinese pears in the tree as it is propelled in and out of the clock like a piston.

When the butler moves towards the bonsai to remove the cuckoo from the pear tree, Kate shakes her head and makes a dismissive gesture.

“No, leave it, please,” she says. “There’s some horrible, horrible poetic irony to this.”

 *

The first thing that Kate does afterwards is call a few friends, to try to figure out what’s going on.

Or, she would, if she could find her cell phone--after several exasperating hours turning the house upside down searching for the sleek white device, she decides to call it, and trudges down to the pay phone at the street corner, since landline phones are a little too plebian for the likes of her family; most of the members aren’t even at home half the time, anyways, and it’s poor form to defer  _all_  calls to one’s butler.

Kate’s cell phone rings three times before a very, very familiar voice answers it.

“Hello?” says Clint Barton, his voice slightly tinny and metallic through the receiver, but unmistakable nonetheless.

_/end flashback_

*

...Which is why I’m here,” finishes Kate. “Having come to the inevitable conclusion that you’re trying to  _set me up_ , Clint Barton. Did you really  _text Speed_  pretending to be me?”

“Guilty as charged,” he confesses, not looking ashamed at all.

“Have I mentioned that I  _don’t_  appreciate it? At all?” adds Kate, just in case her insinuations weren’t perfectly clear.

“You have now,” says Clint mildly, still looking unabashed.

“Jesus Christ, Clint!” Kate spits out. “You set me up on a date--and not just  _any_  date, a date with Tommy Goddamned Shepherd!”

“I’m aware of that.” Clint’s voice hasn’t changed at all, which serves to rile Kate up all the more.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying, Clint?” asks Kate, flinging her hands. “Are you even  _listening?_  Just because you don’t think I’m over--over a certain individual, who I won’t name out of  _professional respect,_  doesn’t mean that you can go around and screw with my love life!”

Clint’s reply is light and dry. “What love life?”

Kate blinks for a moment, and then narrows her eyes. “Are you insinuating that I--”

“Actually, as a matter of fact, what life at all?” continues Clint, plowing through her offended response. “I’ve dug through your  _phone,_  Kate Bishop--and I know how teens are with their phones, even if I’m old enough to be your dad, okay? And your phone tells me that you’ve been basically a hermit for the last two weeks.”

Kate presses her fingers to her forehead. “I don’t want to do this right now, Clint.”

Clint looks almost put out. “C’mon, Katie. No indignant denials, no nothing?”

He receives a weary sigh for his efforts. “Alright,” says Kate. “It was  _not_  I who killed the official’s old widow and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them.”

Clint grins that charming roguish grin of his and ruffles her hair (an action that she hates). It’s pretty easy for him to reach, as he’s perched on the arm of the armchair that Kate has sunk into. “Atta girl. Back up and kicking, making references to TV shows I’ve never even heard of. And I watch a lot of TV--mostly soaps, though, because that’s what they have at hospitals.”

“It’s a book, you cretin,” says Kate, smiling back a little, and punching his arm. “ _Crime and Punishment._  Dostoevsky.”

Clint makes a face. “Russians? You know I don’t trust Russians.”

Which makes Kate chuckle. “Superheroes aren’t allowed to discriminate, you know. And don’t you have a rather soft spot for a particular Russian?”

“Hah,” laughs Clint, ruffling Kate’s hair again (which is no less annoying the second time, but Kate is the Better Person and will overcome). “Young and innocent, still. Just ‘cause you sleep with ‘em doesn’t mean you trust them, whippersnapper.” After a pause, he adds, “And plus, Nat’s an exception, because I love her, even if she loves me back only sometimes.”

“How did you get over  _your_  Bu--er, he-who-shall-not-be-named fiasco, anyways?” wonders Kate aloud.

“Booze and bitches,” says Clint with a wise nod. He eyes her--her fight’s drained out, and has been replaced with a sort of world-weariness, he notes. There’s a slight, almost imperceptible sag in her shoulders.

“Not that I suggest you go down the same route, of course,” he adds. “But, c’mon, Kate. You’ve been shutting yourself out lately. You can’t hide these things from me--the Hawkeye-Hawkeye perception.” Clint taps Kate’s forehead. “It’s better than psychic powers, you know--but seriously. Get out. Go party. Drink something spiked when there aren’t any Avengers looking. Or, even better, when there  _are_  Avengers looking, so we get that awesome disapproving look from Cap.”

“What if I don’t want to?” asks Kate, closing her eyes and leaning back. “What if I’m tired of being a socialite? Of talking to people like I actually care?”

Clint scoffs. “Sorry, Hawkingbird, but wake up and smell the reality-scented coffee. You’re _Kate Freakin’ Bishop_. You’re at ease in even the glitziest social scenes--unlike another Hawkeye that I may or may not know--and of course you care. About me, at least, right?”

“Right,” is Kate’s dry reply, one brow quirked up in slight amusement.

“You’re not the first girl to get rejected by a knockoff Captain America, and you’re not the last,” Clint tells her. “And at least you weren’t ditched for a cyborg, ‘cause that stings. Anyways, buck up, ‘cause you have a hot date in a few hours, from what I hear on the grapevine.”

Kate straightens up as if electrified.  _“Dammit.”_

“You can thank me later,” Clint says. “Now get out. I have a hot date coming right now, and we can’t really neck it out like two turtle doves if there’s a little kid present.”

She has to give it to Clint: despite his occasional dopiness, he’s swift, and has shoved her out the door in a matter of seconds.

Kate catches a glimpse of a pretty redhead as she goes down the stairs, and notes that Clint is sort of a hypocrite--he’s not even over his own demons yet, and already lecturing her about hers, that big klutz.

And as much as she’d like to march back up the stairs and ask Clint why the hell he thrust the box of ridiculous festive-themed trick arrows-- _Santa’s Little Helpers_  or whatever--into her hands while kicking her out, she figures that although he likes to mess with her life a lot, she can and will Be The Bigger Person and leave him alone when he’s with a girl.

(And also she’s kind of both fascinated by and disgusted with the idea of seeing him make out with someone, and so she stays away for that reason, too.)

*

The panic _really_ begins to set in at around 5:00 PM at the Avengers Tower archery range. It’s not that Kate isn’t the collected and level-headed type or anything; she’s certainly not one to sit down and bite her nails and worry about boys, really.

It’s just. Tommy Shepherd.

Kate sets down her bow and quiver and massages her temples, leaning back against the fence and pushing her sunglasses back from her face.

 *

It’s true that New York City never sleeps--the current state of Central Park can attest to that. It’s below freezing, the sun’s long dipped under the horizon, and Kate’s breath mists the cool air every time she breathes, and yet, the park’s not totally empty. There is a steady ebb of people going to and fro.

It’s five minutes past eight, and Kate almost just calls it all off, because Tommy Shepherd’s probably too cool for punctuality anyways, and if he really wanted to be here he’d be here on _time,_ because he’s _Speed,_ goddammit, what’s the point of having superspeed if you’re not going to show up to a date on _time--when_ Tommy shows up.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless, a little sheepish. It’s notable that he smells _amazing._ “I, uh. Sorry I’m late. Molly and Klara helped me get--these...”

And then he shoves possibly the most wonderful bouquet that Kate’s ever seen at her.

Of course, it’s not the most _elegant_ or _beautiful_ bouquet that Kate’s ever seen, being a socialite and a heiress and all, but it’s indubitably the most wonderful--it’s this fragrant, explosive blend of a dozen exotic flowers in alternating sunset hues: vivid purples, bright oranges, and bleeding reds.

“Wow,” says Kate, at a loss for words for the second time that day.

Tommy tosses a confident grin at her. “You like ‘em? I was gonna get you, like, roses or something, like Klara wanted to at first, but Molly just glared at her until she made these, and I thought of you. Not to be creepy or anything.”

Kate gives a half-grin back. “Tommy, you realize that it’s usually not much of a turn-on when you mention other girls on first dates. Especially young ones--it gives the wrong idea, you know.”

 _“Bleh,”_ replies Tommy right away, making a face. “That’s like... _sick,_ Kate. And I know sick, ‘cause I’ve got a pretty sick mind myself, but that’s _sick.”_

Kate can’t resist poking at him more, though. “Well, all of your friends seem to be around six.”

At this, Tommy sniffs with a great dignity that would likely have impressed Kate’s family. “Molly is much older than six, thank you very much,” he says huffily. “And you’re not the best at bringing the romantic mood to the building, either, are you, Katie?”

Kate nudges him with her shoulder, using the excuse to breathe in more of his fabulous scent, which is a mix of the fragrances from the flowers and that strange indescribable quality that is so uniquely Tommy: a mix of gunpowder and shaving cream and sunshine. (Yeah, she can’t explain the sunshine smell, either.) “You’re a goof. Why am I here?”

“Because I lured you here with really pretty flowers?” Tommy suggests, gesturing towards the bouquet that Kate is now cradling.

Idly, she twirls a flower between her fingers. “Maybe."

"By maybe, _you_ mean _yes, Tommy, absolutely, take me now,_ right? 'Cause, you know, I live to please," quips Tommy, soliciting a laugh from her.

Kate puts a slender hand (calloused from a lifetime of archery practice) to her forehead and fakes a swoon. “Oh _my,_ but I’m not sure my fragile countenance could stand it,” she simpers, batting her eyelashes.

“Yeah, you sure as hell won’t be able to stand by the time I’m done,” Tommy snickers, which earns him an unladylike punch on the arm. For three inches shorter and many pounds slimmer than him, the girl can pack a pretty punch.

Before Tommy can accelerate her molecules and blow her up or anything, though, Kate takes a spontaneous twirl, her bootsteps causing resounding cracking sounds from the fresh coat of snow on the pavement. The flowers of the bouquet create a bright streak of color against the bleak gray background. “God, this is a hell of a place to pick for a date.”

Tommy shrugs. “Hey, you picked it, you stick by it, lady. Avengers gotta stay true to their word, rules are rules.”

“Says the guy we broke out of juvie,” adds Kate, which incites a wink from Tommy. Mentally, she thinks to remind Clint later that a park is not romantic when it’s below freezing outside.

“Good guys finish last, y’know,” Tommy informs her, beside her in a flash and casually looping an arm around her shoulders. “And, really, Kate, I never, ever finish last. Except, you know, with you.”

His grip around her shoulders is surprisingly comfortable, and Kate instinctively knows that it’s loose and would be easy to shake off.

Which might be why she doesn’t.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” is Kate’s reply.

“Yeah,” agrees Tommy. “Especially ‘cause word on the gaydar is that someone’s been avoiding the gang.”

“Tommy,” chastises Kate. “A little political correctness won’t kill you. _Gaydar?_ Really?”

She’d say more, but she breaks out in a sneeze, at which Tommy raises his white eyebrows.

“C’mon, Hawkette. Lecture me later. Let’s go inside.”

Kate raises her eyebrows back. “What about my word? As an Avenger?”

“I’ll give you a pass on that for now. C’mon, you can go be an Avenger somewhere we won’t freeze to death. You’re no use dead, unless you wanna become, like, a vampire or something. Which would be weird.”

And with that, Tommy sweeps Kate off of her feet and holds her in his arms. (Which are, admittedly, nicely corded. Not that she’s especially susceptible to nice bods, because, well, hello, she works with _Clint Barton._ )

“And what the hell d’you think you’re doing, Shepherd?” asks Kate, the tilt of her chin haughty and regal enough to make Tommy laugh.

“C’mon, Princess, what does it look like?” he asks. “I’m kidnapping you to safety.”

 *

When her vision finally unblurs, Kate finds herself on the couch of some very familiar territory.

“Yes, this is _totally_ romantic, Tommy,” says Kate, rolling her eyes heavenward--or rather, ceilingward. “Taking me back to the old Young Avengers HQ.”

Tommy shrugs crookedly. “I had some good times here,” he says. “I was kinda hoping, well.”

“The Young Avengers are over,” replies Kate, gently but firmly, because she doesn’t like where Tommy might go with this. She puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder; it’s a little bit weird, having a hand on his shoulder while he’s not spandex-clad.

She feels the worn cotton of his shirt scrape against her palms as he shakes off her hand. “Yeah, I know,” he says, bitterness seeping into his voice. “And, you know. There goes my shot at being something, I guess.”

“You’ve always been something,” Kate murmurs gently, leaning over a little--the cushions of the couch squeak in protest as she does, no longer accustomed to being used. As always, Tommy’s shock of pure-white hair has a few strands that fall into his face, and she pushes them aside and pats him on the cheek. “So suck it up, Shepherd. I’m not falling for any of your mopey crap.”

The smile that she receives back from Tommy is just as cavalier as the one that she flashes at him, but there’s a fraction, a hint of _something_ in Tommy’s eyes. A lingering shadow.

“Guess I’m not getting laid, then,” sighs Tommy, dramatically. “It was worth a shot, though.”

Kate grins at that. “Now, come on, speedster,” she says, giving him another (slightly painful) friendly punch on the arm. “Who said anything about that?”

She’s already sitting right next to him, and her face is inches from his. All she has to do is tilt her head and shift a little closer, and then she can press her lips to his.

And Kate’s never been a girl not to take what she wants--so she does.

 *

As far as he can remember, there are three girls whom Tommy has ever loved.

One of them is way too young for him--her name is Klara Prast and Molly Hayes, and he counts the two of them as one, because, well, their heights combined add up to one lady.

The other one’s got six arms most of the time and has joined the dark side. Her eyes are still gorgeous, though, and her art still manages to connect to his emotions in a way that few other things do. (Maybe because they’re both so damned cynical, and because they’re both broken and messed up. It’s hard to forget a link like that.)

Female number three is the one who he has loved the most, and she’s in his arms right now, her soft skin pressed against his, and he’ll be damned if she’s not absolutely stunning in the moonlight filtering in through the warehouse windows--she looks like a fairy or a goddess or something really pretty and fancy like that, even though she is asleep on a ratty couch in a mostly abandoned warehouse next to a mostly abandoned, ratty boy.

He’s sure as hell satisfied. Sure as _hell._

The thing is, he’s not exactly sure he’s happy.

‘Cause, see, there’s this spot in his chest that feels kind of full and kind of empty at the same time whenever he’s near Kate, and it sucks and feels excellent all at once, but mostly sort of sucks.

He kind of sort of brought it up with Billy, once--they’d gotten drunk after one of Billy’s Jewish things--and Billy had muttered something about love, which had been kind of interesting (although he’ll never say it out loud), but then Billy had started talking about a certain blond part-Skrull and Tommy’d lost interest quickly. (There is only so much gay twin brother that Tommy can stand in his life.)

It’s stupid, because Tommy really isn’t the hand-holding type. He doesn’t want anyone to save his soul, or vice versa. He just--

He just kind of wants _something,_ y’know?

 _Tommy Shepherd, you are such a mopey loser,_ is his final thought as he wraps his arms tighter around Kate and drifts off to sleep.

*

Kate wakes up to the sound of spandex. It’s one of those sounds that is rather difficult not to wake up to, for her, since she’s become accustomed to listening for sounds like it throughout her gig as a superhero.

“What is it?” she asks, struggling to shake off the drowsy fog of slumber and make her mind more alert. She feels a light brush of warmth on her cheek, for a fraction of a second--anyone else would probably think that it’d been a hallucination, but Kate’s learned to trust her senses, mundane as they are--and then when she blinks again, there’s Tommy Shepherd, wearing familiar silver-accented green spandex and a sheepish smile. (And probably nothing underneath, if Kate’s memory is correct.)

“Sorry,” he mutters, actually sounding apologetic. “Your hearing’s ridiculously good, anyone ever tell you that?”

Kate pretends to think for a moment, tapping an archery-calloused finger to her chin. “Hm... I think you told me, once,” she says, at which Tommy raises his snow-white eyebrows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kate confirms. “It was when I caught you and that six-armed girl together and told you guys to kindly keep it down, because _some_ of the Young Avengers actually liked to sleep at night.”

Tommy winces at the memory. “Ah. Yeah. Not a good day,” he agrees, and then lets out a slow smile. “Though, from what I remember, your eyes lingered a little too long, Hawkingbird.”

Kate’s never told anyone this, but she’s always adored Tommy’s smile. Not that stupid grin that he flashes for the newspapers or when he just wants to act like an arrogant jackass, but the kind of sweet one that manifests when it’s three in the morning and they should be asleep and they’re both drowsy and their guards are more down than they should be, the one that shows up when he’s not paying attention. Not that he’s not being an arrogant jackass now, but his guard is down, so he’s smiling that sweet Tommy smile.

“I liked what I saw,” Kate admits, partly sitting up. Suddenly, she yawns and stretches luxuriously. “Well, what’s up?”

“Bad guys down in the financial district--three trussed up French ladies or something, bombing banks,” Tommy replies. “Nothing new.”

And then he adds, almost hesitantly (but not wholly hesitantly, because he is, after all, Tommy Shepherd), “You wanna come? I think your extra Hawkeye threads should be here somewhere. I mean, I know you play with the Avengers now, but--”

“You’re an Avenger, too,” Kate points out.

“If I’d wanted to be in the Avengers, I’d be in the Avengers,” Tommy chides her, who makes her put her hands to her hips in an _oh really?_ sort of attitude. Kate doesn’t know it, because it’s one of those things that Tommy will probably never ever tell her, but it’s a pose that Tommy adores, because it makes her look like a beautiful and badass warrior princess or something (as opposed to glamorous heiress princess).

“Whatever,” says Kate, and holds out a hand. “Are you going to bring me my spandex or what?”

He’s gone for half a moment and back in a flash, a familiar set of purple clothing that Kate hasn’t worn in a long time draped across one of his arms. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

“Many thanks, peasant,” Kate replies with a very formal curtsy, before efficiently pulling on her old uniform. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Tommy’s expression is half fond, half unreadable as he nods. “Yeah. It has been.” And then he grins. “So, race you to the bad guys?”

“Last one there gets shot through the heart with a festive arrow,” Kate quips over her shoulder before flying out the door.

“What?” Tommy asks into the empty air that she leaves behind--scented with just a trace of whatever expensive perfume Kate wears, Tommy doesn’t know the name of that stuff--before racing after her.

 

  
And so they go off to do what they always do, what they’ve always done: fight crime, exchange the occasional heated look, and never, ever say _I love you._

(Although one of them does end up hissing, “oh God, Kate Bishop, you and your stupid singing Santa arrows are gonna kill me, you know that?”)


End file.
